


Stuff To Work On

by gandalfthesassy



Series: The Monkees Reader-Inserts [11]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Comfort, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fighting, Hurt, Hurt feelings, M/M, Multi, Name-Calling, Prank War, Pranks, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gandalfthesassy/pseuds/gandalfthesassy
Summary: A series of mean comments from Mike lead you to begin a prank war, culminating in the pretend selling of Mike's prized possession. When he confronts you about it, will you admit what you did? Can the two of you get over your egos and apologize for actually hurting each other's feelings?Rated T for swearing and implied making-out--nothing happens "on-screen," as it were. Reader is gender-neutral though a few of the names Mike gives might read as more feminine than masculine. VERY vaguely based on the real-life Monkees, based slightly more on the show canon.





	1. Chapter 1

Calling Mike a “diva” wouldn’t really do the situation justice. It was sort of your fault you were getting yelled at, after all.

The trouble began when Mike had said something snippy to you in the studio. You knew deep down that he hadn’t meant to be genuinely mean. But whatever it was (you’d forgotten what he’d said), it _really_ got you. Even though you both had a mean streak to your humor, and you’d been nearly his best friend for a few years, you two were also remarkably talented at pushing the other’s buttons. And he’d just accidentally leaned on a bunch of yours.

Davy had noticed your hands forming animalistic claws around the neck of your bass guitar as Mike went on to the other side of the room. “You okay?”

You shook your head. “I’ll be okay. He was just teasing.”

“Well, if you’re hurt by it, you should tell him,” he insisted. “We’ve all got boundaries, and if you’re gonna be friends with him, you two need to be honest about them.”

“David.”

“What?”

“I’m too petty for that. No, I’ll think of something.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “(y/n), you’re not thinking…”

“Prank war? It’s the pettiest thing I could do. After all, I beat you last time we had one.”

“That’s because spiking my water for recording with _vodka_ went too far.”

“Well...okay, yeah, that wasn’t cool. But before then?”

“You did get on my nerves.”

“You see?”

“But (y/n), is that really the best option?”

“Nope!” He blinked and stared at you. “But it’s what I’m going with. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Famous last words…”

And so kicked off about two straight weeks of the weirdest pranks you’d ever pulled. Mike caught on pretty quickly that someone was pranking him for fun, so he’d tried to figure out who it was. He eventually settled on Micky, who for some ungodly reason covered for you and declared that the prank war was over because he was “done being childish,” with a pointed look at you.

But the pranks didn’t stop. Mike had been having fun with getting caught up in the pranks and you enjoyed seeing him react to them--it was cute as shit. But you weren’t in this to be funny. You were in this to win and make him suffer. Within reason, that is.

And so, for your biggest prank yet, you’d roped in the rest of the band to convince Mike that they were on the verge of being replaced with a different pop group. And as a result of this “change,” they had sold Mike’s guitar for studio time. And so they told him that.

Mike had torn apart the house that early afternoon to find it, and when he quite casually asked the four of you if anyone had seen it, you all looked slightly guilty. Sitting around the table, you all made your faces fall and contort trying to hide your crime. As expected, this led Mike to ask who’d messed with it. You all exchanged another rehearsed, melodramatic glance, before Peter rose slowly and lowered his voice.

“It was me, Mike. I uh, I knew the guys in the studio who help us were short on cash--like, _really_ short on cash--and I couldn’t say no.”

“Peter,” Mike sighed, “you may be dumb, but you’re not that dumb. Come on, guys, where is it?” Peter sat back down. None of you responded. “No, seriously, where is it?” You all paused just long enough that Mike realized. “Oh. Oh my god, you actually did it. You fuckers did it, you did the _one thing_ I asked y’all not to do. We had some fucking rules, and you think it’s okay to just do that?! Shit, my mom could’ve lent them the money!!” he took his rant out to the rest of the room. Out of his sight, the others glanced at you. “All the memories I had with that guitar, and without my goddamned consent!”

As his voice cracked, you spoke up. “Mike, I know where your guitar is.” He froze as he was about to launch into another sentence. He didn’t turn to look at you but you knew he was listening. “Check on the shelf in the hall closet.”

Except for Mike’s movements and rustling around in the closet, the room held no other sound. He took down a hard guitar case from the shelf and held it in both hands. When he looked at you all again, his eyes flashed with betrayal. You’d won, you got him angry. But was it worth it?

Mike carefully set down the guitar. All was quiet for a moment. Nobody wanted to look at anyone else for fear that they’d break the silence and get Mike started.

Suddenly, he whipped around and marched up to the other side of the table. And that’s when the real tirade began. “(y/n), you’re the fucking worst! I’ve done nothing but support you and you pull shit like this for two weeks! You never stop to think that maybe your idea of fun could be harmful to the people you’re pranking. You’re so goddamned stupid I can’t see why we’d let you just keep doing--”

“Shut the fuck up, Mike!” you spat back, standing up and meeting the daggers shooting from his eyes. Everyone else in the room leaned back a little, bracing. You’d never yelled like this around them but you kept going, everything in your body tensing in defense. “You’ve said so much shit to me that is not cool. The things you’ve called me, fucking ‘(y/n) the bass-ic bitch’ or ‘guitar with legs.’ I don’t know why you think that’s funny. I like crude humor but not when I didn’t fucking ask for it, when it’s at my expense. I never laughed at them. I never turned to you and said ‘Cool, Nesmith, call me a bitch again.’ I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to pick up whatever was nearest to me and clobber you.” Mike threw the chair in front of him back with one arm. You puffed out your shoulders, really letting him have it. “Oh good, the Texan’s showing his true color. Take that stick up your ass, _out of_ your ass, and stop treating me and the other studio guys like absolute garbage. Just because your mommy invented a fucking liquid doesn’t mean you’re fucking special. You are a human being, and so are we. So am I. What you said hurt me.” Your voice cracked even as you kept raging. Mike was still watching you but he gave you a look as if you’d slapped him clean across the face. In a way, you had. “It makes me feel like you think I’m inferior, but you don’t, but I don’t get that sense when I’m reminded why I stopped doing music for fun. Because of guys like you, with tiny dicks who gotta _be_ dicks to others to make yourselves known.” Every button of his had been pushed (that you knew of, anyway). He came over to you, to which Micky and Peter stood up. You all knew he wasn’t violent, but you’d insulted half of him within about twenty seconds. His full attention was on you, and he stood just close enough that he was within fighting distance.

“You really wanna get into this?” he warned you. “I know all your faults too, (y/n). I could say some really mean shit about you.”

“I’m not scared of you,” you crowed. And you weren’t. But your eyes lingered on his hands just in case they happened to move a little too close to you.

Micky’s panicked voice rose above the tension resting between you and Mike: “Hey you two crazy kids, can we please not fight right now, okay thanks!”

The two of you didn’t make a move. Mike’s eyes flickered between yours, as if he’d just realized something. He started to say, “(y/n), I--”

“You can’t keep talking like this,” you cut him off. “If you really think I hate myself enough to let you be that cruel, then you don’t know me. Learn some humility, you bastard.” You held the moment, not looking right at him. You cursed how flushed you’d gotten as you went off.

“(y/n),” Davy leaned in to talk to you.

“ _Don’t_. I’m sorry you all saw that, but I’m sure I’m not the only person sick of Mike’s attitude. Just back off.”

Mike had turned away, arms hugging his chest and his head bowed. Before you could give in and coddle him, you rushed over to the door and grabbed your coat off the wall. You couldn’t help feeling for a moment this was your fault. You heard the others move--one towards you, the others toward Mike--and you left before you heard anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You come back.

You walked around the neighborhood for about an hour before you got yourself back in check. As you walked back up the path to the boys’ flat, you crossed your fingers and knocked at the door.

When you saw the face on the other side, you deflated.

“Sorry, (y/n),” Mike blurted. “Thought it was someone else.”

“Mike, hold it,” you lunged to catch the door before he closed it. Luckily, he heard you and didn’t even try. “I shouldn’t have said all that in front of everyone. That’s a pretty awful thing to do to someone.”

“I deserved it.” You searched his expression as you snorted and looked confused. But he continued, his whole self growing shyly ashamed: “I’m not perfect. I used to think I was but I’ve been pretty bad to people. And you’re right. I thought I was funny but I said things that really hurt you. Should’ve asked you what was wrong.”

“I should’ve said something.”

“Well, you did.”

“It shouldn’t have had to come to that.”

“I deserved it.”

You took a good, long, perplexed look at him. “I know you so well, I pushed all your buttons. I thought you were gonna punch me.”

“I mean, yeah,” he relaxed a little and let the door swing open. He leaned against the door frame. “I looked about ready to, didn’t I.”

“Would you have?”

The two of you just stood there for a while. You waited for Mike to answer. He tried to find what he wanted to tell you.

“No. I don’t think I could hurt you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you scoffed and folded your arms.

“No, I mean...sure, you hurt me, but I guess that’s how my jokes made you feel. Right? So if I made you mad and you didn’t hurt me, why should I hurt you for that?” He couldn’t meet your eyes. You were surprised that after you’d torn him down over a few words, he was blaming himself.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” you told him quietly. “And for pranking you. And for, you know, getting mad and not telling you. I should’ve trusted you.”

“Well you know what, I’m sorry too,” he looked right at you. “I shouldn’t have called you names that were pretty clearly buggin’ you.”

“We both have stuff to work on,” you smiled a little.

“Yeah. How’s it funny?”

“‘m not laughing. I just...I guess I appreciate that you’re not getting all defensive and blaming me for not just dealing with it.” He nodded. “Mike, you look like shit.”

“Yeah,” he didn’t deny it. He wiped a few fingers across his eyes. “I was uh, I was crying in the bathroom actually.”

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah. I was really scared that you wouldn’t come back. I was trying to tell you something earlier but I think it might be for the best.”

“How come?”

“Bad timing. You don’t just tell your good friend that you like them after they’ve told you you’re garbage.” He glanced at the scenery behind you. It took him a moment to realize what he’d said. “Oh shit, (y/n), I didn’t mean it like that, I just. Oh man. I just said that right to you, didn’t I.”

“You did.”

“Well.” He stared quite intently at somewhere past you, his face burning. “Shit. Me and my big mouth.” Before he could wallow in that feeling any longer, he turned to go back inside. You stepped in to stop him.

“Wait, but can’t your best friend tell you they like _you_?” Mike faced you again, having been caught off guard.

“(y/n), you…”

“I mean, God, we’re both kind of awful. We don’t kill babies or anything--”

“Speak for yourself.” You rolled your eyes.

“But we could maybe get better if we actually, you know, try this thing,” you suggested. “Do you wanna be uh, datemates?”

“Um...wow, that’s not where I thought this whole thing would be going,” he murmured, half to himself. “But yeah, I’m down.” You both gave a little sigh of relief and giggled, the tension dissolving. “That’s a weird word, datemate,” he remarked as he stepped aside and you both walked in. “I’ve heard you say it, but I’ve never heard you use it.”

“‘Cause it’s a new word that _the_ _kids_ use,” you explained with some degree of levity. “The lazy, entitled young generation have ruined this country, but they sure come up with some groovy terms.” Mike cracked up and you did too. “Hey,” you suddenly stopped and looked around, “where’d the others go?”

“Oh, I think they went to pick up groceries,” he tried to remember, “but that was about when I was cooped up in the bathroom. Mick kind of told me he was sorry and then you know, the car drove off.”

“In that case.” You stepped beside him and gave him a coy grin. When he looked at you, it took him a second before he registered your look. “We’ve probably got about half an hour to do whatever.” You winked. He stammered, avoiding.

“(y/n), I’m uh. Oh boy. Um. How long have we been dating for? Two minutes? You _really_ wanna go _that far_ that quickly? I mean, if, if you’re down, I’m not saying that’s _bad_ uh necessarily, and hell if I’m not down for it either, I’m just--”

“Mike, it’s okay, that’s not what I was implying!”

He blinked. “Then what _were_ you implying?”

You shrugged. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to make out. Nothing serious, just, you know. Hands all over...”

“When you put it like that, sure.”

~~

Forty-six minutes later, the two of you had drifted out of making out and were just together on the couch. You were seated pretty normally, but Mike kept his head in your lap as you played idly with his hair. While you did that, Mike had his nose buried in a book that had long lost its dust jacket; from what little you bothered to read over his shoulder, it seemed like some kind of King Arthur retelling.

Micky burst in, in full imitation of Edward G. Robinson (complete with the typical “myeah, see?”), and Peter and Davy trailed behind him, carrying a few bags of groceries each. You and Mike didn’t move from where you were, but you watched as Micky practically skidded to a halt when he saw the two of you. Peter had seen you--you saw him glance over--but Davy insisted that he get the frozen stuff in the freezer as soon as possible. So those two set themselves to putting food away.

You glanced up at Micky, who stood there, his tongue stuck firmly in his mouth. “You okay, Mick?” Mike wondered. You could hear the smile in his voice and you broke into one yourself.

“I think so? I mean. I wasn’t expecting to see you two like this.”

“Could’ve been worse. We could’ve been doing unspeakable things on this very couch when you walked in.”

“I suggested it, but you declined,” you pointed out and Mike gave a little shrug. “No guarantees in the future, though, Micky. Don’t enter a room without knocking and all that.”

Micky blinked a few times. “I mean, that’s cool, and congrats, you two, but...where? And how? And, well, _why_?”

“Oh, c’mon Mick, don’t pretend you didn’t see this coming,” you jeered. “You’ve been rooting for us to get together since Peter introduced us.”

“But it was like an hour ago that you blew up at him, (y/n),” Micky scratched his head. “I just don’t get it.”

“We talked it over,” explained Mike.

“And we both have stuff to work on,” you added. “Everyone does. Besides, we have the same sense of humor anyway. We’re both kinda mean.” You looked down at Mike and he looked back up at you, utterly contented.

“Well, uh,” Micky glanced around, hoping for a reason to excuse himself.

Luckily Davy came to the rescue moments later. “Hey Micky! Where do you usually put the cornflakes?”

“Oh hold on, let me put them away,” Micky walked over and took the box from him. “It’s a little out of the way for you.”

“So _that’s_ why I can never find the cereal! You always put it out of reach!”

“Not always. I only do this when I want to annoy you.”

They launched into a small argument about where they were gonna put their cereal from now on, but you and Mike weren’t listening. You sat there together, thankful that something made sense at least. You bent down and left a little kiss on his nose.

“Does this mean we can’t argue anymore?” Mike wondered as he sat up and scooted next to you, resting an arm on the back of the couch behind you.

“Oh no, are you kidding?” you sat back up. “This is where it gets _really_ intense. Are you ready to have the kinds of fights that old married couples have?”

“I thought we did that already.”

You gave a surprised laugh. “You’re kind of right, actually.”

“I mean, yeah. What were we fighting about earlier?”

“You said something mean and I was mean back, and we both left very salty and hating each other. But now, we’ve got the option to kiss and make up, instead of just apologizing later.”

“Looking forward to all of that,” Mike joked and kissed your cheek. The two of you watched the others go back and forth, knowing that the arguments weren’t going to stop, but you both knew now that there was something really important to preserve, something deeper than friendship. And you were looking forward to all of that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this is happier than chapter one. we gotta stay positive even if we realize we're terrible people idk

**Author's Note:**

> In terms of why Mike's mean in this, there's a story where he punched his first into a wall, turned to a producer who'd screwed the band over, and said, "That could've been your fucking face." So uh, that's part of the Mike that ended up in this fic's version of him. Don't mess with a Texan, I guess. The first chapter's pretty angsty and tense. The second chapter starts on a note of aftermath but ends on a much happier note. They're both in one fic because emotional whiplash is my specialty!


End file.
